Taking Chances
by BAnder54
Summary: Scott and Jonny find trouble at Fletcher's Meadow, but they find something else as well. A repost from 2010.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the last of my older fics, and it feels good to have them off my desktop, lol. Originally from 2010, revised in 2014.

**Taking Chances**

Scott fell out of his dreams with a gasp. Still dark out, rising early was becoming something of an annoying habit. The _patron_ timed the start to the day, and Murdoch believed in getting an early start. Yet even his father would be asleep at this hour. Scott rolled over in the large bed, sheets clinging and wrapping about his legs.

He'd once taken his life for granted—much like lingering in bed—as something that was owed to him based on lineage and status. That all changed five years ago and since then he'd never forgotten to be grateful for having choices to make. But he often wondered about the decision that led him to Lancer. And what particular brand of lunacy had been passed down to him from the family tree.

It was more painful to think about the man who raised him. Their angry parting was still too fresh after these three months. The circumstances surrounding it were ugly and unexplained, weighing on his heart.

He pulled the sheet around his waist and sat up on the side of the bed, feet slapping against the cool wood of the floor.

Scott thought about it as he readied himself for the day, reaching for the razor. A cursory check found a new scar, a small nick, on the plane of his jaw hidden amongst the stubble. The brawl with Johnny had left evidence, an unwanted souvenir from his new residence.

He didn't mind responsibilities, but he missed the privacy and ease that went along with his old life. Part of the unspoken pact with the Lancer partnership was living under the same roof as Johnny and Murdoch. It was much easier to think about it than actually accomplish it most days.

The dream that brought him awake was coming back. It was so vivid. They were standing under the ivy-covered lattice work of the veranda, with the smell of rosemary in the air, an on-coming rain ratcheting up its sweetness. Her voice carried above the din of cattle and men.

"_I knew you'd find your way here—to Lancer."_

"_The place of your death." There was resentment in his voice and anger, too, if he had to admit it._

"_My home." She moved from the chair to stand beside the porch strut, her blue muslin billowing out with the breeze. "The place where my life started."_

_Scott watched her hand, tip-tapping out an unheard melody against the wood. Following the graceful line of her fingers past the cuffed sleeve to the slope of her shoulder, he settled on the sweep of golden hair gathered at the nape of her neck. She turned and studied him, tilting her head. Grandfather. It was a punch to his belly, the resemblance was so strong._

"_You shouldn't have died."_

_Flashing a smile, she tucked a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear. "That was never my—our—intention. Trust me, my son."_

"_Trust…in what? The future with Murdoch and Johnny?" _

"_You have to find your own way at Lancer, Scott." She smiled again, the fullness of it creasing the corners of her eyes. "I'm proud of you." _

_A breath squeezed out of him. "Why?"_

"_For who you are." _

_He ducked his head to examine calloused finger tips. "I should have stayed in Boston. Grandfather needs me." _

"_No." Her voice rippled with irritation. "Your grandfather wants you away from California. It hurt to have me living here— not at all what he expected from his daughter. Now that you've left Boston, he feels lost once again. But he's not an invalid, far from it."_

_Before Scott could speak, she took a step towards him. "You've been missing something. It's here, you just have to look."_

"_Tending cattle or repairing fences?"_

_She swept her hand out in an arc. "You have all this—and more. You'll need to use what's inside you Scott. Patience and loyalty—courage, too. But there's something else you don't have." _

_Weren't those things enough? Scott shrugged and stepped to the edge of the portico, watching the dark clouds gather in the west. He felt her hand on his shoulder. _

"_Son, if you don't figure it out soon, you'll never find it, and that would be a tragedy." _

Awakening then, the warmth of her hand still lingered on his arm. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, uncomfortable with the renewed sensation of feeling adrift.

Scott walked past the silent bedroom doors of Johnny and Murdoch and made his way downstairs. The aroma of coffee met him before he set foot through the kitchen doorway. Darkness and shadows hugged the room as he found the pot at the back of the stove, still hot.

"It's fresh." One of the shadows moved and Johnny's outline became solid when he leaned into the sliver of moonlight coming into the kitchen window. "Or was a half-hour ago."

Scott nodded and poured a cup. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

"No reason not to."

It was too early to argue so he sat instead, nursing the warm cup between his hands. Sparing a glance upwards, he saw Johnny's rumpled shirt half-way unbuttoned, its sleeves pushed to the elbows. "A rough night?" He looked closer—Johnny was wearing a lopsided smile. The scent of summer lilacs drifted across the table, intermingling with his coffee. "Or perhaps just getting in?"

"It would be the second one, 'cause the night went real smooth." Johnny grinned wider and rubbed his thumb across the lip of his mug.

"You might want to think about changing your shirt before Murdoch comes down, unless lilac is your new cologne of preference." He took perverse delight in seeing Johnny's smile wobble.

"There might be some truth to that all right. Why are you down here?"

"Something woke me, couldn't get back to sleep. Did you get any sleep on your, ah…adventure?"

"Managed a few hours, here and there." The Cheshire grin, the one that was so irritating, was back.

Scott rose, rubbing the back of his neck, and paced the length of the kitchen. "Johnny, about tomorrow…today rather."

"Yeah, I been meanin' to talk to you about that."

His brother's quiet voice made him jerk around. "What?"

Johnny shrugged. "It's like this—it's a simple enough job. Maybe it don't need the both of us to get it done." He leaned forward and splayed out one hand flat against the top of the table. "And seein' as how we don't exactly see eye to eye on anythin'…"

"You thought you would go by yourself to the cabin."

"Well, yeah."

Scott rested his hip against a drawer front. "I'm of the same mind, only I was the one going."

"I'm not stayin' here and have Murdoch ride my ass for that…adventure…in town."

"Then keep out of his way, because I'm going to the line shack."

Johnny's eyes narrowed. "You're a hard case, you know that, Scott?" He dug into a front pocket for a bright coin. "I'll toss you for it."

"It's a little early, isn't it?" Murdoch's deep voice rumbled through the kitchen. For a big man, his father had a quiet step. Scott watched him walk into the kitchen and stop next to the table, and wondered just how long he'd been standing outside the kitchen door.

Long enough it seemed. Murdoch's eyes were a mixture of exasperation and worry. It was the same look he was wearing after Cipriano and Frank had to intervene at the corral.

Johnny tapped against the side of his mug. "About that job today…. I can handle it alone, no need to send the two of us."

Scott lolled his head to one side, eyeing Murdoch, waiting.

"So you two were discussing this, in the dark kitchen, at this hour?" Murdoch tipped his head towards him. "And what about you? Do you feel the same way, Scott?"

"It seems prudent to send only one man to the line shack." He shot a look to his brother. "That way Johnny can stay here and help gentle the new horses."

Johnny's head swept up. "Wait a minute…"

Murdoch held up a hand. "You'll both go." At Johnny's grunt, he turned to face him with a warning. "It's final."

Because he couldn't think of any more words or excuses, Scott simply nodded.

~#~#~#~

Johnny leaned back against the wall. The tequila that went down real velvety last night wasn't sitting too well right now. The tapping in his skull, right behind his left eye, made him squint. Boot heels clacked on the foyer tile and he saw his brother stop by the pegged wallboard to pick up his rig.

Scott rolled up his sleeves with care, and pushed the shirttail further into his pants, smooth and tight. He lifted the gun belt from the wall peg and buckled it around his waist. Jiggling the holster, he searched for that right fit before settling it against his hip. One more tug into place then he turned and saw Johnny watching.

"What?"

"We aren't goin' to church, Scott. Just takin' a ride in the mountains."

"And your point is?"

"It's gonna be sundown before we get to Fletcher's Meadow."

"Murdoch hasn't given us our orders yet."

"You mean _you_ don't have any orders yet."

"Far be it for me to be the millstone of this party." Scott snatched his hat off the second peg. "This big rush out the door wouldn't have anything to do with Victoria Rose, would it? The girl who's father is half owner of the bank?"

Rose was a handful of woman. A couple of handfuls in some places.

"No."

"Then the late night in the Moro Coyyo saloon?"

"I don't need anyone lookin' out for me."

Scott shrugged. "If that's the way you want it."

He took two slow breaths, willing the noise in his brain to stop. _This was just gonna be one helluva fine day. _

Johnny reined Barranca in close beside the rangy bay when the trail narrowed, and edged a look. Scott sat straight in the saddle, shoulders pulled back yet relaxed. Thin features beneath the down-turned forward brim of a slouch hat…everything about him said _cavalry_. Everything but the white-checked shirt and red neckerchief. Funny how he'd missed it all this time. He should have remembered, after that trick at the corral.

Scott was a man who spoke his mind when he wanted to. No holding back. Usually Johnny appreciated a man being straight-forward, so he didn't know why that little fight still stung. Maybe it was a little too close to the truth.

_"Thanks for backing me." Scott slapped his gloves together and shoved them under his belt. _

_"What do you mean?" Because Boston wasn't moving and he wanted to, Johnny started to slip a few steps away from the corral. _

_Scott tipped his head to the circle of men at the barn. "I fired Tucker and you hired him back. You figure it out."_

_Well damn. "Look, Scott, I didn't mean it like that."_

_"You've got a lot to learn, Brother." _

_"I don't need any lessons, not from you." Johnny continued, pleased when he saw the heat rise in Scott's face. _

_One long finger came out and pointed at his chest. "I'm getting tired of walking on eggshells around you."_

_Johnny shifted his weight from one leg and crossed his hands in front of his gun belt. "Then why don't you come out and say what you're thinking'."_

_"All right. I don't think you're up to it."_

_He looked at Scott from under the brim of his hat. "Just the job or being a part of Lancer?" _

_"Don't be an idiot."_

_"Accordin' to you, I'm already an idiot."_

_"That's not what I said. You've been on your own too long, you don't think past the day."_

_"Sometimes even an hour can be too long. And I don't need any advice from a…"_

_"From a what? An easterner who doesn't know any better?"_

_Johnny stood and gauged the man in front of him. "Go to hell, Scott."_

Both had waited for moment then charged and grappled in the dirt, getting a taste of each other's fists until Murdoch had Cipriano pull them apart.

He and Scott had nothing in common. No starting point, except the old man's blood. And that didn't count for much, at least not the way he saw it.

~#~#~#~

Johnny was wrong. They made Fletcher's meadow with a few inches of sunlight left on the horizon. The cabin was still five miles off to the west, but he estimated they'd get there not too long after dark.

The high sun had baked the ground into a fine sifting of dirt. It clung to his clothes and to his horse, casting Barranca with a brownish hue. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead, settling it back into place. It had also burned off the last vestiges of tequila leaving him cotton-mouthed and bleary-eyed.

Scott started forward, his own dust rising up with each footfall. "The creek appears low."

"Been drier than usual from what Murdoch what sayin' the other day. Be interesting to see what shape that line shack is in."

"That's what we here for, right?" Scott turned and stretched out his bunched reins. "Take my horse. I'll fill up the canteens, there's no way of knowing if the pump at the cabin is still working."

The white of Scott's shirt was a blur of color against the brown and tan of the land. He watched it bob and weave around mazanita and scrub then one last flash before disappearing to the creek bed. Out of place, Johnny thought, his brother was out of place. Squinting, he tried to picture him in that fancy get-up from the stage, but found the image didn't come so easy now. Had that suit been black or grey?

The white reappeared at the top of the rise and stopped, holding two swaying canteens. "Are there cattle up this way?"

Johnny shrugged and walked the horses forward. "Why do you ask?"

Scott pointed to the creek. "Because we have tracks—lots of them."

There were prints in the dust, at least a hundred, crisscrossing the stream bed. It'd take a few head of cattle to make the mess he was looking at, one hoof print after another, all heading east.

Scott bent down and ran a finger over a few of the curved patterns in the dirt. "You know, it would be much better if Lancer did run cattle up here."

Johnny knew exactly what he was thinking. "I guess the line shack can wait a while."

They got the horses moving again. Every so often Scott tilted at an odd angle off his saddle, peering down at the ground. The tracks meandered here and there, farther into the woods. On thing for sure, the men pushing the cows were taking their sweet time, getting nowhere fast.

They found the camp under a few cottonwoods, beside a finger of water sluicing down from the mountains above. A soft plume of smoke rose from their fire high above the treetops.

Beneath them, in the swirling dusk, two shadows. Johnny looked down at the site then away to the makeshift pen holding a few mustangs along with the cattle.

"They're not moving too quiet are they?" Scott whispered.

"This high up, they're not expecting company." But they were careful, Johnny could see that well enough. Firelight flickered on the men's faces and off the rifle barrels wedged against the tree.

A murmur of the voices drifted to them on the hillside. The bigger of the two motioned to a burlap bag while the smaller one shook his head. Their horses were unsaddled—it looked like they were going to stay the night. Johnny gave his brother a quick glance. Scott was looking down at the men, his face barely visible under the broad-brimmed hat. But there was a determined set to his chin, emphasizing a little scar on his jaw line. Johnny couldn't remember seeing it there before.

Scott looked up, catching his eye. Johnny nodded to him, relieved when he understood. They'd be stumbling around in the dark in a few minutes. It was time to go.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The men were so set on the bag at their feet that when Scott's voice rang out clear and cold, they came up blinking their eyes, looking like two owls in the night.

Johnny nudged his horse nearer to the fire and leaned forward. The man in front of him was about his height, but beefy through the middle. He pegged him at thirty or thirty-one. His teeth seemed to have taken the brunt of a fight or two and the remaining ones needed a good scouring.

His view shifted across the camp to the smaller one standing closer to Scott. A sorry example of a beard gave his face a moth-eaten appearance. Unlike the first man, he didn't wear a gun around his middle. These cowboys were no gunfighters. But the surprise had worn off and they were staring at him and Scott like salivating dogs after a thick steak.

The man spoke up, whistling through those missing teeth. His grin was all good humor. "Hello, friends. Light down and I'll build up the fire and make us some coffee."

Johnny pulled his left rein away from Barranca's neck and slipped out of the saddle. He aimed his pistol toward the man's gut. "I don't think we'll be needin' any coffee."

Scott shifted in his seat, placing one hand on the horn while the other held his gun steady. "Johnny, I'm curious. Why don't we see what's in the bag?"

"That's no business of yours, Mister." Toothless had lost his smile.

Johnny waved his hand to take in the corral. "Just like those cattle?"

"I think you got this all wrong, boy. These are our cattle. Check the brands."

Movement to the side caught his eye. Bearded was toeing the flap over the bag opening.

"I'm sure they do—now. Runnin' brands on yearlings isn't exactly honest work. Let's see what's in the sack."

"Who' er you to be askin'?"

"You're on Lancer property. I'm Johnny Lancer and this is my brother. And we're pretty sure those cows over there are ours."

'Well, I guess that do make a difference then don't it?" The snake grin widened, showing wide gaps. "Better show' em Harley." Toothless nodded to his partner who knelt down beside the burlap. Johnny sensed rather than saw Scott stiffen, but kept his eyes on the big man in front of him. No one said anything for a moment then Scott broke the silence.

"Ah, easy there, _friend_. No sudden moves."

The man edged away a bit after throwing open the flap. Toothless' gaze never wavered, but something was wrong. There was a change in his eyes, they widened just a hair.

"Scott! Look out!"

A gun roared from Harley's hand. The crack of Scott's pistol resounded, making it seem like a single shot. Johnny dove and rolled, firing. Toothless went down in a heap, his gun with the unspent bullet still dangling from his fingertips.

He cast a quick glance around and saw Scott lying unmoving on the ground. His bay had startled to the outer perimeter of the camp. Just as he started towards his brother, Johnny heard a rustling noise coming from around the camp fire. Harley was down, but moving.

Johnny reached him and kicked the gun away from his clutching hands. Caught high, blood was flowing out of a hole in Harley's chest. He jerked once then gurgled out his last breath as Johnny turned away.

He got two steps.

A high pitched voice called out. "Mister!"

A third man stepped out of the shadows, his rifle held chest level. Dressed in ragged canvas jeans, the only clean thing on him was the broad-brimmed Stetson pulled down low over his eyes.

"Drop the pistol." The man nodded to the campfire. "And get over there where I can see you better."

Lowering the hammer on his Colt, Johnny tossed it away from him. This one was antsy, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, flashing quick looks at Harley crumpled by the fire.

"Pa?"

Johnny caught a glimpse of a smooth cheek. A kid had hold of that rifle- just a young kid. He took a step forward.

The boy jerked his chin to the fallen men. "You up and shot my Pa and uncle?"

"Stealing's not the way to go. We would have given you the meat, if you needed it."

The rifle bobbled an inch lower and Johnny took one more step. "Another death isn't gonna fix anything."

Firelight shone in the boy's face, glinting off the boy's bright eyes. The rifle rose again. "No sir, I'm gonna do you like you done to mine."

Johnny stared down the big bore of the Winchester. He looked off to where his revolver lay, judging the distance. "Just wait a minute."

The boy shook his head and cocked the weapon. "You're dead, Mister."

A shot snapped out from behind Johnny. The boy's rifle dropped as he tottered backward and pitched over, a look of pure shock clouding his young face.

Johnny spun around. Blood streamed down his brother's arm and splattered his shirt. His temple was creased with it, a bruise already starting to show. The fall from his horse, Johnny guessed.

Bent and hurting, Scott laid his hand on the ground, pushing until he was on one knee, then wobbled up to two feet. Standing there a long moment, not moving, he stared at the kid's body. Johnny saw the frown and the way he looked at the pistol in his hands. Then he lurched off to the boy's side.

Kneeling down beside the body, Scott turned the kid over so his face was backlit by the fire. "He couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen."

"Old enough to hold a gun."

"And die?"

"Sometimes it comes with the territory."

Scott stumbled to his feet again, a strange expression on his face. The light was dim, but Johnny swore he could see grief.

Leaving Scott leaning against his horse's shoulder, Johnny walked to the burlap sack and opened it. Four running irons were nestled in there, along with another forty-five. But that didn't change a goddamn thing—two men and a boy had died—and Scott, almost.

He kicked the flap closed again, sending the irons clanking against one another.

~#~#~#~

The boy's thin face—a stranger in the woods—was a jagged reminder of all the others. Lungs squeezed hard in his chest with sorrow. Scott swallowed it back down and pried his eyes open, focusing on a whorled knot in the warped table.

Boot heels scuffed behind him, then the opening and closing of cupboard doors. Johnny came around, a few cotton rags in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. "Not much here, but it'll see us back to the ranch. Good thing the bullet passed through. Lot of blood, though." Hesitating, he thumbed the top of the cork. "Scott…thanks for that out there."

Rubbing his forehead, Scott worked a small grin he didn't feel, and squinted up through one eye. "I suppose you're glad I came along after all."

Johnny's mouth thinned out. "I'm tryin' to say thanks."

More than weary and unable to care, Scott let his eyes close. He inhaled the scent of rosemary, and found it comforting.

_She hummed while working her embroidery, pulling the last thread taut. "Look to what is right in front of you, son."_

"_But that boy…"_

_Pale eyes became misty, her hands went still. "Defending a life took a life. You've been through this before."_

_A parade of young men with grey faces made his belly tighten. "Bellum justum."_

_She nodded and silent tears fell on the bright weave she held in her hands._

"_I don't know what to do."_

_Concerned, she set her work to the side. "Your instincts helped you survive then…follow them now". She stood to face him, her palm cool and dry against his sweaty cheek. "Darling, wake up."_

"Hey, don't go sliding off the chair on me."

His brother was close, jostling his shoulder. He opened his eyes when Johnny's knife slit the sleeve from shoulder to elbow, inspiring pokes of fire to run down his arm.

"Scott? What's it mean, that bellum justum?"

He didn't remember saying it aloud. "Nothing…it was just a thought."

The knife stopped and was tossed to the table. Johnny's silence was edgy, ratcheting up the tension Scott already felt. He hitched a breath and took a chance. "It means a just war. But resorting to it should only be considered under certain situations"

Johnny's head tilted downwards, but Scott had seen the thoughtful look before he turned. There would be more questions to come.

"It wasn't your fault, killin' that boy. He was gonna shoot me, come hell or high water. From where I'm standin' that's 'just' enough."

Scott watched him fuss with the rags, ripping them in half for suitable bandages, then reach for the bottle. The air was close in the cabin, almost stifling. He put his hand on Johnny's arm to stay the whiskey.

"It's not so much that I was forced to kill him, Johnny." Nausea flared, and bile threatened at the back of his throat. "Did you ever…did it ever come too easy for you?"

By the look on his brother's face, he'd manage to shock him.

Johnny fingered the cork, popping it out, and took a swig. His voice grew soft. "Maybe."

"Well, I didn't think twice about pulling that trigger." Scott took the bottle and brought it up to his lips, feeling the burn trickle down. "I've killed in battle. Oh, it's not the same as in a gunfight I guess, but I was good at it. And it got to be easy after a time."

"When did it turn for you?"

It wasn't with the first. Another stranger met in the woods by happenstance. And later, long after all of Scott's retching at the side of the road, he found the corporal's pimply face burned into his memories. He studied his hand. Dirt and dried blood discolored it, mapping the cracks and crevices of his skin with a garish hue. "I thought this many years after Virginia, the feeling would have left." But it resurfaced fast enough from whatever depths he had relegated it to.

"It started before we marched to Richmond. Sheridan wanted to overwhelm the Confederates at Yellow Tavern—and so we did, with a cavalry column almost ten miles long. The hostilities took place almost immediately, but the rebels hid in every ridgeline and tree top, and after a time we were driven back from our advance."

He looked up to see what Johnny was thinking, but found no recriminations. "Then the real fighting began. Dismounted, man against man. Three hours later, it ended." Only the lull didn't last. Snyder's Bluff and Milliken's Bend all followed—one bloody contest after another.

"How'd you break it?"

Scott shifted to take some weight off his side and cradled his arm against his chest. "It was broken for me—after the siege of Vicksburg." More dark memories threatened to pull him down. The throbbing from his arm pecked away with an ever-rising thrum; he slumped back into the chair rungs. "Maybe I just want to forget it."

"Well I can't. You saved my life. That's a lot of trust to put on one man."

_Trust…?_ He straightened too fast and spots of light exploded into his periphery, crowding out his sight. She said there was something he needed to find. He thrust out his hand, reaching. It bumped against the solidness of Johnny's chest and strong fingers curled around his wrist.

"Easy now...I've got you."

Johnny's words had a faraway sing-song quality—as if spoken to a child. Bristling, he pulled back his hand, but Johnny didn't let go. Scott's sharp tugs sent shivers into the worse of the pain and his vision darkened to black.

~#~#~#~

It was a paltry dinner, just hot beans and the peaches he found in the cupboard. Johnny found he couldn't eat much and Scott did even less, though his brother managed to get some of the sweet juice from the fruit down his throat before he fell asleep. Since it didn't look as though either of their appetites were coming back soon, Johnny scraped the beans back into the pot and tossed the plates into a bucket of water.

He cast a quick glance to the figure in the bed. Scott's wound had finally stopped bleeding with enough packing, and there didn't seem to be too high a fever yet. The comment made back in the kitchen this morning came to mind. Scott _was_ a hard case—he'd make it through all right.

The four walls were closing in with the coppery smell of blood still tainting the air. He snagged his saddlebags and pulled the door open, stepping out to sit on the porch stair. The trouble with night was that once he got thinking, he couldn't seem to stop.

He took out a few small patches of linen and a tin of oil then pulled his pistol from the holster. Holding it up, the silver handle flashed and sparkled in the moonlight. Gunfighting was a job. Something he knew how to do and he did it good enough to stay alive. But that didn't stop him from wondering, or worrying.

Feeling a little vulnerable on the porch, Johnny dismantled the firearm and set to work.

He wasn't much older than the kid when he first pulled a trigger. Arturo needed killing if anyone did—forcing himself on that saloon girl. But it didn't stop Johnny from dropping the rusty forty-five when the son-of-a-bitch wheezed out one final breath with his pants around his knees, pecker hanging out.

Or puking over the toes of his boots in the dark alleyway. Just him and that crying girl—what a pair.

He shook his head, knocking some of the memories out, and started to work on the barrel. His work was slow and careful, knowing every inch of the pistol he held in his hands intimately. He kept his gun almost as well as his secrets.

Johnny frowned as he chose the bore brush. It was a secret Scott told him, plain as day. He knew that look on his brother's face, he'd felt it. Fear and loathing all tied up and shoved away where no one could see.

If he was being truthful, maybe it was a part of the reason he came to Lancer in the first place. Because he knew the exact day when pulling a trigger came too comfortable—and it scared the shit out of him.

The old cot inside the cabin creaked. Johnny followed the noise and found his brother sitting up, raking a hand through his hair.

"What time is it?" Scott's voice was gravel-deep, tinged with sleep.

"It's still early, must be one or two."

"Can't sleep, either?"

Johnny shook his head. "No. And this is startin' to become a bad habit." He pulled the pot off the stove and poured out two cups of coffee. "Here, maybe this'll help some." He waited until his brother took one of the tin cups.

The bandage around Scott's arm looked clean from where Johnny stood. The bruise at his hairline showed dark against his paleness. "You all right?"

"Just restless."

"Get you back to the ranch by mid-morning. Teresa'll fuss, just like she did with me."

"Wonderful."

Johnny half-grinned. "It was a little hard gettin' used to it."

"Just a little?"

"Maybe a bit more than that." Pulling out the table chair, he sat and sipped long and hard from his cup. "What you were saying earlier about shooting—and killing—comin' too easy."

Scott looked up, wary.

"It's like this. I really didn't give an answer before…but, yeah, I know what you're talking about." The warmth from the tin cup curled up through his fingers, settling in his belly. After trying so hard to keep it inside, the utter calm felt strange.

Silence covered a good stretch of time until Scott balanced his coffee on the mattress and sat back against the wall, drawing one leg up. "When was it?"

~#~#~#~

It was Johnny's idea they take the dead into Moro Coyyo and have the sheriff decide what to with them. And along the way, after a visit to the saloon, one drink became two, then many more followed after that.

Scott didn't feel much like talking on the ride back from town. The truth was he didn't feel like doing much of anything. The whiskey had done its job, but where he was delightfully numb starting out from town, his arm and head were now starting to protest the closer they got to the ranch.

"What's that tune you've got going on?" Johnny drew his horse in beside him, their knees almost touching.

"What?"

"That song you've been hummin' since we left town. Kind of gets in your head and won't let go."

Scott blinked. "I have no idea."

"Well, it reminds me of somethin'."

The answer came to him after a few more miles. It was her song. He had a fleeting glimpse of her working the needle through the colorful threads of her embroidery. He thought about Johnny's story and how it intermingled with his, even on opposite sides of the country. The ride—and the company—helped blunt some of his sadness. As they walked their horses under the Lancer arch, Scott found that things weren't so dark after all.

Murdoch was by the wheelhouse when they rode up. He met them at the corral, his gaze lingering on Scott. "There was trouble at the cabin?"

Scott felt considerably less stable on the ground than he was in the saddle. Murdoch blurred then came into focus again.

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

Murdoch peered down, eyes narrowed. His mouth fell open. "You're drunk."

"Yes, Sir, I believe I am."

"Why?"

Scott lifted a shoulder and shrugged. "No special reason. Seemed like a good idea at the time." He turned his attention to the bridle and its very small buckle lying against his horse's cheek. It was proving to be difficult. He overheard Murdoch talking.

"Johnny, is he all right?"

"Aw, leave' im be Murdoch. Sure there's blood, but he got it taken care of at the Doc's." Johnny snickered. "Besides, he's not feeling too much pain right now anyway."

Oh, but he really was. His arm felt on fire all the way down to the fingernails and his head ached from all the liquor soaked into his brain. Scott tugged on the bridle one last time, then gave up. "Pardon me; I hate to interrupt the family reunion, but here." He thrust the reins into Murdoch's hand. "I need to find a bed."

Johnny tried to stifle a laugh, but failed.

"You're drunk, too." Murdoch words were snapped out.

Johnny's answering tone was honeyed and drawn out. "Yeah, but not near as much as my brother."

Scott left the two of them to argue and started towards the house, their voices still filtering in and out of his hearing.

"Johnny…what happened?" asked Murdoch.

"It's his story…Scott'll tell you if he wants to."

And he supposed he would, but not right now. Maybe later, much later. He was grateful for his brother's discretion. Scott felt a tap on his shoulder, then Johnny's hand slid under his elbow.

"Figured I got you to the house, it's on me to get you _inside_ of it, too."

Scott stopped and leaned into Johnny's side. "I'm going to regret this in the morning."

"No you won't."

"Why?"

"Because it's already afternoon."

"Lucky me."

Scott craned his head back to look at Murdoch, left holding the reins of the two horses. A definite frown there. Looking for all the world like he'd been left out of some great joke. "You think he's angry?"

"Nah, just a little confused."

Shifting again, Scott stumbled forward, tripping a bit on the porch landing. "Aren't we all."

Johnny's grip on his arm felt solid, despite the whiskey fumes his brother was exhaling. "Oh, I don't know. Seems like we got a few things straightened out."

He flicked his hand against Johnny's chest. "Amen, brother, amen."

**Epilogue**

Scott took a tentative sniff. The scent of rosemary drifted about the air. Maria must be baking that dish he liked so well. Something to do with chicken, if he remembered correctly.

The afternoon sun was fading behind the mountains and he was feeling lax and fluid from the day's work. Draped in the most comfortable chair he could find, the heat from the adobe wall warmed him until his eyelids were heavy and drooping.

"_You deserve to be happy, Scott."_

_He looked to the chair across from him. She was looking at him expectantly, her hands folded on her lap. _

"_At Lancer?" _

"_With your father and brother. It won't be easy. Johnny's finding his way. He'll need your help, just like you needed his."_

_Scott thought back to the cabin. "I understand what you were trying to tell me. What I was going to miss." _

_She shook out the folds of her dress. "So stubborn. You almost threw it away." _

_It was a rebuke, one he earned. She caught his look and smiled, holding his gaze. _

_Some of the fire left her eyes and she sighed, just a whisper on the breeze. "Troubles are ahead, for all of you. But you're together, and that will make the difference."_

_Standing to take in the setting sun, she braced her hands against the wrought iron railing. Then she swung around and walked to his side. Her hand moved towards his. He clasped it, feeling the warmth and strength hidden within._

"_It won't be an easy task to make Lancer home. But Son, you're more than equal to it." She patted his hand. "Now go, you're late." _

"Scott! Where are you?"

Johnny's yell startled him awake, the voice echoing through the kitchen. Then Maria let loose a stream of words in Spanish. The language was not his forte, but he could tell it didn't bode well.

Johnny stuck his head out the door. "What're you doin' out here?" He came out shaking his hand, wriggling the fingers Maria must have caught.

"Just looking."

"Are you comin' to town or not?" Johnny stopped and sniffed. "Hey, it smells good out here, sweet in a way. Like…"

"Like what?"

Johnny looked off to the corral for a moment. He eyed Scott and shrugged. "My mama made chicken like that sometimes. It smells sorta like…home."

Scott smiled. He couldn't agree more.

"So let's go, Rose won't wait for me all night."

Stealing one more look at where she had stood, Scott nodded. "I'm right behind you."

The End

(Original 2010, Revised 06/2014/ba)


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